Antigone, your many tongues, are they enough?

They are amphibian and

anamniotic, of water and in water, indiscrete. Are tadpoles

leaning, limbs sprouting (from long sleeves, late nights),

waves of hatching: to. From. A survival on a white and

fractal drift. 
You’ve said: The whole texture of my language is not

an English texture. Is the heterodox defensible,

will you defend yourself?
The patterns are perpetual, are

outskirts thick with mice. Kavafis said: out of the world,

insensibly, they shut me out. But never a sound of building,

never an echo came. So what do I mean when I say

the suburb is abandoned? Or when I name the suburb

‘body’, ‘possession’, dispossession’, ‘grace’? The door

is locked or off the hinges, or there is no door, or there are

no hinges. No subjects, only objects (glands, olive trees,

blown crates, creases of prayer mats); the before and after

of satellite images burned into sentience. No, I mean

conscience. 
You’ve said: There’s an assumption that when

you’re writing from the outside you haven’t worked

at your language long enough.
Closely enough? Enough is enough?

Entry depends on a show of recognisable biologies and

prepositions (over bodies, against intruders, to the gills). Yet

we slide through membranes, finned (and into downpours,

bomb-fall; the sun bleaching clear our barest parts;

our trespass into form).
Antigone, it’s hard to get a handle. Do you

have a word for common striving
like housing, habitat, the red

zone for our blistering transmissions εμείς,οι μόνοι μας

μάρτυρες